legends never die {atlas v. roger || day 6}

Roger pulls the helm of his cerberus cloak over his brow, hollow glare framed by fangs. He adjusts the pelt over his left shoulder, hiding his two stumps beneath the fur of the better beast. He isn't fooling anyone. But back in District Four, his little sister is watching — he knows it. Roger wears a brave face for her out of habit.

The glaive is a sturdier staff than Scout Krigel, but step-hopping along on one foot is still slow, exhausting work. Every six inches sends tendrils of lightning through is broken body. The pirate's half surprised that his teeth haven't started chipping yet, considering how hard he's been gritting them together.

He stepped on a sea urchin once, when he was twelve. For six hours, he was convinced he was dying — curled up and vomiting, pulse threading, limbs not responding to his will. When the poison passed, he was left with three sharp spines buried in the sole of his foot, swollen and sore. Every step was agony.

He'd rather roll around in a pile of sea urchins than move another inch.

But move he must, because the figure in front of him is not the one he's looking for.

"So, does the Devil own your soul? Is that how you're still breathing?"

The question is punctuated by the heavy heft of a warhammer — swung slowly enough that even one-legged, Roger sidesteps the strike without issue.

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"The devil's made it pretty clear that she wants nothing to do with me." Or that she wants me piece by piece.

He casts an eye towards the acid lake, wondering if Davy Jones is still the sailor's devil this many miles from the sea. A pond is not an ocean, and whatever's filling it certainly isn't water — but Roger has been cut down to half a pirate, anyhow, so perhaps it's close enough for him.

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"Your hand's probably redder than mine, Nine. The only thing I've done to deserve this was sign myself up." It was true — Roger hadn't killed so much as a mutt in the week he's spent getting hacked to pieces.

Scout Krigel, a small voice in the back of his head reminds him. You killed Scout Krigel.

No, he hadn't — he'd just kept her from getting saved. Scout Krigel still breathes.

A cannon fires in the distance.

He hopes.


[attr="id","rSpeech"][roger attacks atlas, dragonfire glazed spike glaive]
GsdHh42Oglaive
[attr="id","rSpeech"][block]

[attr="id","rSpeech"][accuracy reroll]
glaive
[attr="id","rSpeech"][13015 -- Deep Gash on Back of Head -- 9.0 damage]

"She's n-n-not the only one."

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"You broke Scout Krigel's foot." Roger says it simply, a fact and an explanation. As though this is the perfectly logical denial of this boy's implicit request for Roger to leave him alone, to hobble away.

A second swing of District Nine's warhammer — caught on the shaft of Roger's glaive with a lazy flick of his wrist — renders the the notion moot, anyhow.

It isn't vengeance he's after, not now. This isn't a matter of blood for blood, bone for bone. Roger has little use for a pound of Atlas White's flesh when he has ten pounds of his own arm in the sack slung over his shoulder.

But he broke Scout's foot. So Roger had dragged her from the Cornucopia, bleeding and screaming and inches from death. Had helped to patch her up. Had carried her on his back. Had taken responsibility for her. And she'd made him the cloak that was slung over his stump, had delivered the final blows to the beasts that hounded them, had made an end of the girl from Five for harming him.

When he was a little boy, Roger Strangways-Teach had pictured himself as a hero, a giantslayer, a valiant knight — even a victor, from time to time. It came as no surprise when, at seven, he found an idol in Fitz Ripley.

But the stammering boy from District Nine is anyone but Stark Harper. Atlas White lacked the malice. He didn't deserve to drown in his own blood before he fell face first in the water. Roger would be no hero for giving him to Davy Jones.

And even though the pirate had volunteered to save a girl, he'd done it for the wrong one.

"You have plenty of time to catch up, Four. Keep on going, your hands are already turning red."

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"Hand," he corrects. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"Your Fray boy saw to that."

He could never be a Fitz Ripley.

[attr="id","rSpeech"][roger attacks atlas, dragonfire glazed spike glaive]
ksxYzPfjglaive
[attr="id","rSpeech"][13045 -- Deep Gash on Stomach -- 9.0 damage]

"Have you watched your district partner's face light up the sky? Have you lost her yet?"

He spits a glob of blood in Atlas White's face.

He's not even sure what it's come from — maybe he bit his tongue when he took his last swing. Maybe something important inside him finally ruptured and he's hemorrhaging without realizing it. Maybe he'll drop dead in a second.

It's easier to think about than to picture Scout's face in the anthem.

He'd return the taunt if he could remember who came with Atlas to the Arena. He can't, so he bites his tongue — for real this time. No blood.

"Face it, Roger. No one makes it out of this arena a human. No victor has ever been anything but a monster and a murderer."

He hates the way that Atlas is smiling at him. As if he's just stumbled upon some big secret, deciphered some riddle. How enlightened of him.

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"If I'm still fighting, do I look like I care?" Half a human. Half a monster. And still only half a murderer. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"Look at me."

The Cerberus cloak still covers his stumps, but beneath it, there is nothing left. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"It's cost me an arm and a leg to get this far." Roger chuckles at his own stupid joke, a goofy grin cracking his beard — only for a second. Then it is gone. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"Being detestable is the least of my worries."

The warhammer is slow, but weighed down by a leaden heart, Roger is slower. Atlas's arm comes down, and for an instant, the pirate is certain his half-life will end in a pink splatter, the last thoughts of Roger Strangways-Teach speckling White's face in a firework of red and greymatter.

But the spike catches on the Cerberus's snout, splitting that skull instead of Roger's. His forehead is collateral damage, a curtain of crimson covering his eyes, spilling down his face. Everything runs red. Even the false diamonds that decorate his beard have turned to rubies.

"It's funny isn't it?"

The helm of his cloak tumbles to the ground, red and ruined. It's funny how Scout Krigel keeps saving his life, even after they've parted.

"You kill me and then, you become me. A tribute with innocent lives on his shoulders."

He's already carried one innocent life on his back. Butchered and broken, there is no room for a second. Roger Strangways-Teach could cut down every other tribute in this godforsaken hellhole and he wouldn't feel half as guilty as he does for every scratch on Scout's body. He's turned it over and over and over in his head.

He had good intentions when he signed himself up for the Games. To keep his sister safe, keep her from volunteering on her own. Hell, that other boy — what had his name been? — even got to keep out of this pit. Roger can't bring himself to feel good about it.

"My namesake bore the weight of the world- can you?"

No. He's already been crushed under the weight of one little girl.


[attr="id","rSpeech"][roger attacks atlas, dragonfire glazed spike glaive]
gViU_bPJglaive
[attr="id","rSpeech"][13064 -- Shallow Cut on Neck -- 4.0 damage]

"I thought of you a decent man and not a career," says Atlas, as if the two are mutually exclusive. Of course he'd think so, being a lower district and all. As if scores of children preparing themselves for the inevitability that one of them will have to fight for their life some day makes them immediately dishonorable. As if there was no decency to be found among a first life and a second one spend breaking bones and slitting throats.

As if everything decent about Kite Tide was lost when he put a spear through Keeni's face, and as if Hettie Cheyne was a monster for seeking vengeance. As if there was nothing decent about Daria Staite mourning the Benstaloe boy because she'd opened Eckhart's throat two days later. As if trying in vain to tape Scout's cousin's head back onto his body, holding his hand til he died — as if burning half her fortune in funeral rites for a girl she hardly knew didn't count against all of the blood spilled by Gunner La Torre — before the arena and in it.

As if the second someone from District Four picks up a sword, a spear, a glaive, they suddenly become something reprehensible.

But when Atlas White hefts his hammer at a girl who hasn't harmed him, it is somehow forgivable. Because he isn't from a place where children are taught how to aim true.

The pirate's honor is a subject he doesn't plan to address — not here. By his count, Roger has anywhere between two minutes and two days left in this hell, and his grey integrity is nuanced enough to demand a lifetime of nights curled up in a tallbacked armchair, lights off, four fingers curled around the neck of a bottle of rum. He isn't about to tease out the specifics of his dignity with a bloodstained boy whose first words to Roger were accusing him of being in league with the devil.

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"I don't care," he whispers. And it's true that he doesn't. Roger Strangways-Teach has always been bad at putting stock in the opinions of strangers, and he has no reason to listen to feedback from the boy who's three wounds in debt to him. Who nearly turned his brain to pudding. Who he's nearly decapitated twice, nearly disemboweled once — but who swung first and keeps swinging.

Who helped to fend off the skeletal dragon while Justice Fray crippled the pirate further.

Who broke Scout Krigel's foot in the bloodbath.

Who killed — someone, from the sound of it.

"Tell me something. Will I see her again? When I die, do you think I'll get to see the little girl I couldn't save?"

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"I don't care," he repeats, more firmly this time. More resolute. After a lifetime spent mediating middle-grounds between his ever-warring family, friends, crewmates, blunt honestly is liberating. He doesn't care what happens to Atlas White after he dies. Doesn't care what happens to Roger Strangways-Teach after he dies. Nothing, probably. Nothing sounds like sweet release after the battering he's taken.

"Or will all I ever amount to is another notch in the belt of a detestable man?"

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"Don't know." Atlas's hammer is slower and heavier with every swing. Roger leans into the staff of his glaive and lets the heavy weapon whistle past him. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"I don't know you well enough to make that judgement."

He softens a little. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"But that would be sad for you."

[attr="id","rSpeech"][roger attacks atlas, dragonfire glazed spike glaive]
LIx9Cpavglaive
[attr="id","rSpeech"][13168 -- Deep Gash on Right Calf -- 8.0 damage]

"To be a notch on your belt is not the worst fate I can imagine."

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"I'll wear it then, for what it's worth to you. Til the day I die." His teeth are tinted red when he smiles, a chuckle — soft, but genuine — tumbles out. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"Tomorrow, probably."

His mustache meets his beard again, lips turning downward as he sobers. He doesn't care — doesn't care what Atlas White thinks of him, doesn't care what the boy thinks of himself — but it is a small thing. Roger's never killed a man before. He may be no valiant little tailor, but it may not be the worst idea to etch one in seven blows into his belt. Not as a point of pride, but as a reminder — the one souvenir of his time in this arena that he has control over. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"But I will."

Like every morning that's come before this one, Roger will still wake up surprised that he hasn't died in the night. (Or, whatever passes for night down here.) Assuming he makes it to sleep (or whatever passes for sleep down here.)

"When I die, that is the end of me, the end of my suffering. It should never be the living who pity the dead." Roger smiles again, familiar with the sentiment. He's spent the last several days wondering why he hasn't died yet — wishing not here, not here all the while.

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"Pity me, then?" he requests. The pirate isn't sure why. [attr="id","rSpeech"]"When it's time."

The hammer falls.

Like a gavel on a sounding block, the gem-encrusted steel hits his five toes, sentencing him guilty! Roger drops with it, a mournful howl escaping his throat.

The pain hits first. The realization hits harder. Roger doesn't know how to process either of them, but his caterwaul is sustained during a moment of recognition that this is how it all started. Atlas White smashed someone's foot — right foot — and so Jolly Roger Strangways-Teach has to carry Scout Krigel on his back for the rest of his life.

He doesn't know how to handle matching more closely with the girl that's felt heavier on his shoulders as she's fallen away.

He doesn't know how he can keep doing this much longer.

He doesn't know how he hasn't stopped.

Maybe it's because he doesn't know how.

All he knows is how to get back up.

He rolls to his side, glaive in four-fingered hand, props himself up on knee and elbow. Teeth gritted and jaw locked — because this is going to hurt — he forces his weight forward and up, propelling himself forward off the butt of his weapon. His heel bears his weight — and that is something.

He lunges, because Roger Strangways-Teach doesn't have any idea what to do with nothing.


[attr="id","rSpeech"][roger attacks atlas, dragonfire glazed spike glaive]
aSfSpVbzglaive
[attr="id","rSpeech"][13072 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage]

He can't feel it. Atlas's hammer smashes his shin that must have been one wound too many for Roger Strangways-Teach's broken half-body because he can't feel a goddamn thing.

His one remaining leg is bent at one or two angles too many and the only noise coming out of his mouth is a breathy, desperate laugh. What can he do with that?

What can he do with the crumpled mess that is what's left of his body? Four fingers, five smashed toes at the end of a leg rendered useless by a shattered shin. That's it. Nothing left. Nothing right.

One thing's for certain: he isn't getting back up.

And Atlas White requests his own death all the while.

The glaive is a long enough weapon that Roger could oblige from where he lies. Whether or not he ought to is another matter.

[attr="id","rSpeech"]"You didn't have to go and make it so hard for me, did you?"

Nothing about this is easy. Nothing about the Hunger Games has been easy — not by any metric. Killing Atlas wouldn't even crack the top ten.

If he had to make a list, he'd place it somewhere above burying his knife in Justice Fray's arm that first day — a flash of memory equal parts mournful and gratifying — and well below eating Scout's leg — seasoned and roasted like a chicken on a spit — out of a desperate urge to sate the gnawing in his belly before the hunger devoured him.

He doesn't care, truly — does not care about the boy from District Nine — but he doesn't care to kill him, either.


[attr="id","rSpeech"][roger attacks atlas, dragonfire glazed spike glaive]
Fdyf2OwBglaive
[attr="id","rSpeech"][13125 -- Block -- 0.0 damage]

"I've gotta give you a reason to remember my name."

He groans, tastes blood in his throat. Roger isn't concerned about the mortal wound that the District Nine boy has just given him. He's been on the cusp of death for days. At this point, he's fairly certain it isn't coming for him. Maybe Atlas was right, after all — maybe the pirate's soul is somewhere else, and that's why what little blood he has left still pumps through what remains of his broken body.


[attr="id","rSpeech"]"If I'm gonna kill you," he chokes out, [attr="id","rSpeech"]"I'll remember your name for the whole hour it takes for something else to come along and finish me off."

You idiot, he adds in his head.

But Atlas is lying. Has lied. Whichever. If he wanted Roger to kill him, he'd've laid down his hammer and presented his neck.

Not that the career can blame him. It's that same reflex, the same compulsive need to stay alive that drives Roger to keep swinging, keep struggling, keep fighting when in reality he ought to have died days ago.

Some people would call that grit or spirit. The pirate knows better.

When you are drowning, your brain shuts itself down to the bare minimum. Your struggle becomes pure instinct, an animalistic response to the fist of Davy Jones closing around your throat. It is a quiet thing, the same silent panic of waking up from a nightterror unable to control your limbs, control your mind, control your body. Everything shuts down. Your arms flail in a fight against your own weight dragging you into the depths, but you do not control them.

Anyone who's spent any time on the water — as Roger has, once upon a lifetime ago — knows that you do not attempt to save a drowning victim until after they've disappeared under the waves. Drowning men are dangerous. A drowning man will latch on to anything solid he can get his hands on in an effort to keep his head above the surface. Drowning is contagious in this way — would-be rescuers often find themselves accidental victims of the person they've tried to save, unaware of the animal that has taken the helm.

Both of them — Jolly Roger Strangways-Teach and this boy from District Nine — may want to die. But neither can override their instinct for silent struggle.


[attr="id","rSpeech"][roger attacks atlas, dragonfire glazed spike glaive]
YZ97B2wDglaive
[attr="id","rSpeech"][13068 -- Shallow Cut on Right Shoulder -- 3.5 damage]